


Ipswich Who?

by Th0rnB1rd



Category: The Covenant (2006)
Genre: F/M, fae, magics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-01
Updated: 2013-08-01
Packaged: 2017-12-22 01:55:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/907507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Th0rnB1rd/pseuds/Th0rnB1rd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christa Amarillia coined the phrase 'skeleton in the closet', however ever since moving to Ipswich the 24 year old is beginning to think what's the harm of a few bones? Set in Ipswich during summer break when the guys visit home from college.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Road Rage

Road Rage

 

Shit-fuck-shit-fuck-shitty-fucks-fuck!!! Who the hell swerves into the other lane like that? These fucking rich boys and their speedy sports cars, that’s who. I can see the prick right now in my review mirror and, had I been born in an ideal world, the strength of my glare would’ve popped his towhead like an unwanted zit.

I wait a few minutes, taking slow, deep breaths. I picture myself getting out of the car and starting to scream at the crazy man in the black Hummer. You know, the general “fuck you!” and “You should just GIVE your license to the CHP!” It’s the only decent thing he could do for the rest of population.

God, my heart’s beating as fast as a jackhammer. If my hands weren’t clutching the steering wheel I think they’d be trembling. My skin feels all tingly from the adrenaline coursing through my blood. What if I hadn’t turned in time? What if the car had hit me?

Okay, be cool. Just be cool. I still have to drive a few miles into town so I have to freak out later.

Okay, now get out of the car.

Wow, my legs are weaker than I thought they would be. Thank God I’m wearing flats instead of heels. I can’t believe this guy isn’t getting out of his car! He almost slams into me and now he’s just _sitting_ there in his car with his friend, staring at me like I’m crazy. If his Hummer had actually hit me, my little Volkswagen would’ve been completely and utterly totaled. I glance back at my aged VW with a super imposed image of a crushed tin can with the little V and W shorten into overlapped images.

Okay, be cool, be polite. Smashing his face in would look bad in court. Besides, there’s always the option of keying his car later on tonight.

I slowly walk up to the driver’s side of the Hummer and peered up at the slightly tinted window. A moment passed before the automated whir of the window slid down to reveal a young man with blue eyes and blonde hair. The guy looks pale, shining a pasty white against the black leather of the car seat. I am suddenly struck with guilt. Is he sick? The emotion is quickly surpassed by common sense and rising anger. If the guy is so sick why is he even driving?

“Are you ok?” Wonderboy, the driver’s passenger, asks after a moment of silence.

I glance at the driver, who avoided eye contact by staring at the steer wheel intensely. He seemed to be content with letting his friend speak for him.

“Besides being a bit shaky in the hands, yes.” The driver’s eyes seem a bit glassy and his pupils look suspiciously big.

“Sorry about what happened back there.”

Wonderboy has dark brown hair, clear blue eyes and a clean-shaven look. He sounds sincere and his eyes reflect only concern for my well-being. I imagine this guy is able to get away with a lot with just an apology.

“Yeah, seems like your friend here is having some trouble.”

My comment earns me a glance from the blonde. I notice his eyes are having trouble focusing on me. I take an experimental sniff, no alcohol.

“Sorry. I’m glad you’re ok,” he interjects, “I was driving too fast and the wheel slipped. I must’ve hit a puddle of water.”

“A puddle of water,” I repeat dryly.

“Yeah, I think I hydroplaned for a bit,” His face was completely straight.

“It has been really foggy the past couple of days,” he friend chimed in. He flinched when I turned my stare on him.

“Well, maybe you should slow down a bit. Have to be careful of those _puddles_ ,” I said hoping to cut flesh with my words.

“Thanks, I will. You have a good evening,” he replied curtly. The window rolled up without further comment. I walked back to my car, a boiling mass of murder.

Ooo, what a smooth talker! Blondie sure had a lot of balls, though his blue-eyed friend did most of the talking. I wasted time walking out to his car – probably pulled shit on the road all the time and lets Daddy Big Bucks take care of the collateral. Wait, damn it, I should’ve said that to his face.

God, I’m late!

New job, new town, new house…and I’m late. I have a good excuse, though. Getting run over by an insane, rich boy is a good excuse. So smile, look a little distressed instead of flaming pissed because mouthing off about the locals (who are most likely the clientele) is not a good side to show to the boss.

            Okay, obsessing over being nearly killed is going to be a real cramp in my day. Need to think about something else, something shallow and not filled with rage. Clothes, my work clothes - the upside about working behind the bar is that it really doesn’t matter what you wear from the bottom down. Contrary to the stereotype, bartenders don’t dress like hookers, or climb up on the counter to dance and sing karaoke. Just wear a sexy top that lets you pick up crates of beer bottles without wrinkling and you’re good to go.

Besides the flirting, the job practically does itself: people come in wanting to get drunk, and I serve them beers until I’m legally obligated to stop and then send them home in a taxi. Niki, the lovable bald muscle man, told me he deals with all the aggressive drunks with a large bat. I look forward to see him use that on somebody someday. My job is basically to look pretty and keep up the stream of alcohol with the occasional soda or side of fast food for those that aren’t on the fast track for liver failure. Not that I look down on alcoholics – that would be crazy. Since entering this profession, they’ve become my people.

I am the hot chick dispensing liquor and wisdom.

 


	2. ID Check

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The second time Christa and Reid meet.

I.D. Check

 

I’ve only been working for Niki for a week having been hired just last Friday before I moved into town. I knew Niki was a man before I had my interview him. I was curious to see what kind of person he would be. No man named after a girl could be considered normal, especially if the man was an owner of a bar. Owning a bar is like being the playground monitor for kindergarten all day. So I wasn’t surprised to find Niki short for Nicholas and the man himself a 6’5” baldie who worked out daily. Niki is a tank, with a shiny bald head and nicely trimmed Van Dyke mustache. The girth of his body could’ve been mistaken for fat until Niki flashed the defined muscles of his biceps.

            The interview was short since Niki was simple and straightforward with his expectations. I won him over with a few bartender jokes and sterling recommendations from my previous employers. Working at Niki’s is a nice change of pace from Miami, where everything is about image and sub-context. Latin music is replaced with old Americana from the jukebox. Everyone who comes into the bar knows everyone else. The world is a lot smaller in Niki’s than Miami. For now, smaller is better.

I’ve gotten down the routines of alcohol serving. There are three options for drinks at Niki's: bottled, on tap, or soda (which is also on tap). The drinks go from beers to hard liquor shots, skipping anything fruity or involving an umbrella. Niki gave me permission to stare down anyone who orders fancy drinks since the regulars are mostly college kids and they shouldn’t be drinking cosmopolitans until their thirties. Though I’m old enough to be a college graduate, there are still plenty of boys willing to impress me by buying me a drink. By their generosity I’m put in a sticky situation. You never want to be known as the bartender that turns down drinks because you never get tips that way. On the other hand, being stupid drunk on the job is a fast way of getting fired – so I compromise. I accept only shots and use an empty beer bottle as a “chaser”. Oh, the slyness of me! The boys get to inflate their egos and I reap the benefits by raking in the dough.

            The night is turning out to be a good one. A lot of college kids are out tonight with the word on the street that Niki’s is the place to be. I’m taking the orders for a bunch of varsity boys when _he_ comes in. Happy thoughts are out of my mind the moment I see Mr. Hummer and his sidekick Baby Blue Eyes. My jaw clenches, teeth grind and somewhere far off a volcano explodes. _Asshol_ \- No, I need to restrain my violent urges. There’s too much liquor around me to give a plausible excuse to the cops of why I went on a bloody rampage. I just hope the turd doesn’t walk over here.

            Oh, hello! Why thank you God for hearing my prayer and answering it by having Mr. Hummer come to the bar. Please, have a good laugh at my expense. I’m going to pretend that you didn’t try to run me over a few hours ago and politely take your order, Mr. Hummer. At least Baby Blue Eyes has enough sense to conveniently remove himself from the bar area after he sees my glacier smile. He wanders over to the foosball table where two older guys are battling it out.

Mr. Hummer isn’t as quick on the uptake and slides between two jersey guys to order a round of beers. By the instant reaction of the varsity group to the new presence, it seems that I’m not the only one that Mr. Hummer has pissed off. The level of testosterone rises and one of the guys wearing a blue jersey makes a snarky comment to Mr. Hummer about waiting his turn. Unperturbed with the fact he is unwelcome and outnumbered, Mr. Hummer picks up the verbal gauntlet and returns it with one of his own. As much as I would enjoy standing back and letting the two have at it, Niki has a strict policy on fights in his bar. I doubt he would sympathize with my reasoning seeing the little blonde punk get a black eye was worth damaged property.

I act like the seasoned bartender I am. As a veteran of many bar fights and tussles, I know from experience the quickest way to ends a fight before it begins: quick service, flirtatious smile and—occasionally—a flash of cleavage. I quickly serve the varsity group their order of drinks. I set down the glass bottles loudly on the counter to disrupt the flow of bickering and smile at the two startled glances I receive from my actions. As sweet as pie I remind the two that Niki dislikes loud arguments in his bar. The instigator, a cute guy with semi-long wavy hair and an over confident smirk, glances over to where I know Niki is looming behind me near the door to the backroom.

 

He backs off by pointing a finger at Mr. Hummer, “Next time no one is going to save you from a beating, Garwin.”

 

“You know where to find me, Aaron,” Mr. Hummer replies with a smile.

 

Aaron leaves with his friends to stand around the pool table.

 

With one obstacle avoided I promptly set to overcoming the next one by gathering Mr. Humm—er--Garwin’s order of beers. It isn’t until I set the beers on the counter that I think to ask Mr. Garwin for his ID card. I look at his face critically; he looks young and has little baby fat left on his face. His skin is clear of blemishes, but I spot a little stubble on his chin he missed while shaving. I mull over the possibility of skipping the age test, however my decision is decided for me once Mr. Garwin misinterprets my look-over and winks at me.

I feel a hot flash of anger directed at boy’s over inflated ego. Doesn’t he remember a few hours ago that he tried to smash me into the pavement? Apparently not – nearly killing a person doesn’t merit recollection for Mr. Garwin. I smile, hiding my thoughts, and lean closer to him, letting him think his attention has made my heart all a-flutter. He falls for the trick and mimics my actions.

 

I haven’t seen you around here before. Did Niki just hire you?” Mr. Garwin smiles, all charm and pretty looks.

 

“Yeah, I started working here this week.”

 

“I’m Reid Garwin. Nice to meet you.”

 

No way doesn’t this asshole remember me! I don’t consider myself a vain person, but this slight would affront even Gandhi. Now it’s legitimate: revenge against the blonde twit must be exacted.

 

“Well Mr. Garwin, I will have to see some ID.”

 

I can tell that this isn’t the reaction Mr. Garwin was expecting by the blank stare he gives me, his smile a little less certain.

 

“I’m a regular here, you can ask Niki.”

 

“Now, what kind of bartender would I be if I didn’t avidly check a potential costumer’s ID when I think he might not be of legal drinking age?”

 

“A normal one.”

 

“All this way-saying is not improving your position here.”

 

“You know if you want to know more about me, you could just ask.”

 

“And that was your third strike, Mr. Garwin.”

 

I lean back and start removing the beers from the counter. For a moment the blonde’s face is still with disbelief, and then he is digging in his pocket for his wallet. He slaps his state ID down on the counter, irritation furrowing his brow and making the corners of his mouth turn down. As I savored the taste of victory, I delicately pickup the ID card and look over the information for a few minutes. I hand him the card and leave my hand-outstretched palm up looking at him expectantly. Mr. Garwin’s irritation is marred for a few moments by confusion.

 

“What?”

 

“That will be $18.50.”

 

His reaction is the cream that tops my revenge. Once I receive the money, I hand over the beers, which he gathers and he leaves without any further comment. I watch him as he rejoins Baby Blue Eyes and the two guys by the foosball table. They seemed to enjoy the show and start harassing him about it. My mood lifted I return my attention to other waiting customers and put Reid Garwin out of my mind for the rest of the night.

 

 


End file.
